


My Passion Tranquil

by TheMewsAtTen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Body Image, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Harry Potter Next Generation, Insecurity, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 21:12:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15804669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMewsAtTen/pseuds/TheMewsAtTen
Summary: First morning in their flat together. Scorpius wakes up but Albus isn’t next to him, nor is he anywhere else in the flat . . .





	1. 15th March 2025

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mavisbluemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mavisbluemoon/gifts).



> I wrote this for Scorbus Fest (@scorbusfest over on tumblr).
> 
> I was excited about the fest, but I hadn’t thought I'd write for it. This was the first time I’ve written fan-fiction to a specific prompt and I really wasn’t sure I could do it. I'm still not sure, actually!
> 
> But I looked at the prompts and noticed that @mavis-bluemoon had submitted some and that convinced me to do it. They have never been anything but supportive of my writing and reassuring on the (frequent) occasions when I feel like I’m deluding myself and have absolutely no potential at all. So I want this fic to be a small token of my appreciation and thanks for that support and kindness.
> 
> The prompt was “First morning in their flat together. Scorpius wakes up but Albus isn’t next to him, nor is he anywhere else in the flat . . .”
> 
> I believe I’ve avoided all of your ‘no-nos’ and that I’ve tagged for most of the things that readers might find triggering or upsetting - if not, please tell me and I’ll fix that.
> 
> I hope that what follows pleases you, and brings some small amount of happiness to others in the process!
> 
> I don’t own these characters or their worlds - I write for pleasure and not for profit and no copyright infringement is intended.

Albus wasn’t in bed next to him. Scorpius could tell.

They must have shared a bed a million times. It had been their ‘thing’; just something they did, almost from the beginning. Midnight talks and slumbers behind curtains and silencing spells in the dorms at Hogwarts meant it had felt natural for them to share the luxury of Scorpius’ four-poster in his cavernous room at Malfoy Manor during the Christmas holidays. By the time Scorpius came to stay during that second summer, it had felt _weird_ for Albus to give up his bed for him when they could just share. They’d found comfort in each other that way since long before they’d been a couple.

Scorpius _knew_ how it felt to wake with Albus beside him, in the same way he knew _any_ feeling that was so innate that you never noticed yourself thinking about it at all.

So he didn’t really know why he was bothering to reach out his hand now, groping fruitlessly at the empty space in the bed next to him. He didn’t have to. He _knew_.

He flipped from his belly onto his back, yawning. The flat didn’t smell like them yet; it still had its fusty, unoccupied odour, having sat empty for months, waiting for them to come.

He felt _It_ then, of course, the way he did every time he woke from sleep. A tingle across his chest. 

The _actual_ pain was a memory; it was months ago, contained in the relative safety of the past. _This_ sensation was a different thing altogether; a prickle of heat he felt whenever he thought about _It_ , an itch _It_ sent him to remind him _It_ was there. 

He squinted his eyes, the white brightness making him wince. Their new bedroom was hot with the blinding morning light, motes of recently disturbed dust floating in the rays coming through the window. 

 _That must have been what woke Albie_ , he thought foggily. 

Albus hated mornings at the best of times. This bedroom, a sun trap in the morning, was the one thing he hadn’t been completely sure about when they’d come to see the place. 

Scorpius stretched, smiling wistfully at the memory of that first visit. He sat up, perching on the edge of the mattress, rolling his head, feeling the blood starting to pump around his body.

“Albie?” he called out, his voice still croaky from sleep. 

Nothing. No stirring or footsteps from elsewhere in the flat. Albus obviously hadn’t sloped off to the bathroom or the kitchen. 

Scorpius knew he was guilty of building this moment up in his head. Inevitably, his recovery had delayed their moving-in day. They’d finally got everything into the flat yesterday; a day that should have happened more than three months earlier. Even with magic to help them, the job had been a big one. The whole day had felt _big_ \- even bigger than it might have done if the attack hadn’t almost taken it from them forever. 

This was their first morning together _in their first home_. Was it so unreasonable to want to wake to the feeling of Albus beside him? To want to share it with him, this moment? 

He tried to bargain with the feeling of disappointment, reminding himself that this wasn’t the first time they’d slept together, and it wouldn’t have been the first time they’d woken together, either, a tangle of limbs and hot breathy kisses. But the last few months had made Scorpius anxious about things like this. He thought a lot more about first times now. And last times. Now, every quarrel with Albus, every time they were apart, Scorpius’ insecurities and fear of abandonment all swarmed around that one thing - _It -_ that thing that had changed his body forever.

Besides, he thought petulantly, _this_ time was supposed to be special. Albus was meant to be in bed next to him. What could be more important than that right now?

He gazed down at his bare feet, contemplating the way the bones of his toes moved under his pale skin when he wriggled them. He contemplated his body a lot more since the attack. If he was being honest with himself, he _obsessed_ about it now, far more than he’d ever done before, even when he’d been a slightly gangly, spare adolescent, growing into the shape he would have to live in all his life. 

He was wearing his customary loose-fitting pyjama bottoms that he’d pulled on before he went to sleep - but nothing else. In the late-night darkness of their room, the pleasant giddiness brought about by the celebratory bottle of wine and warming puttanesca they’d shared coupled with the cosy cocoon of post-orgasmic bliss had obviously put Scorpius off his guard. He was genuinely surprised to realise that he’d managed to drift off to sleep topless. He hardly ever did that now. It was one of the easinesses that belonged to _before . . ._

Now, in the cold light of day, his first instinct, even though he was clearly alone, was to reach for a t-shirt or sweater; _something_ to cover himself up. To cover _It_ up.

Scorpius yawned again, lionlike, looking around himself for something to throw on, and chuckling fondly when he found nothing.

Albus’ room at his parents’ house had always been utter mayhem. Scorpius’ room, on the other hand, had been organised and pristine. Their respective parts of their dormitory at Hogwarts had been just as mismatched. 

Knowing that chaos stressed Scorpius out, one of Albus’ earnest promises when he’d agreed to move in with him had been that he would try to be much more tidy. Scanning the floor of the room, Scorpius could see he was already taking that vow especially seriously. The place was still a maze of unpacked boxes; a bit of mess would have been forgivable, under the circumstances. 

But no. There wasn’t a single discarded garment of any kind to be found anywhere. Even his own t-shirt, roughly cast aside as they’d stripped each other naked under cover of darkness the night before, had been whisked away as if by an overzealous house elf. 

He shook his head incredulously as he eventually stood up from the bed with a groan, fishing in one of the nearby boxes of clothes for a t-shirt. He wrestled it on, making his way out of the bedroom and into the hallway.

“Albie, you there?!” he called again, pausing, frowning and padding towards the bathroom when, once again, no answer came.


	2. 2nd December 2024

The day they realised they’d found their new home, Scorpius couldn’t help but be unsuspiciously, breezily amazed at how easy everything had turned out to be. It had all just fallen into place for them in the end. They’d gone from school to the start of their ‘real’ grown up lives together so smoothly, their luck and serendipity never seeming to let up.

As the years at Hogwarts had passed, one after the other, Scorpius had struggled to picture what he wanted to be or do when he left.

“I think I’m just _stuck,_ Albie. Stuck with, you know, nerves about making the right choice,” he would fret, lying on his bed in their dormitory, worrying his thumbnail compulsively, “I mean, we’re all being told to make decisions about what to study, choices that’ll make or break our whole lives. We’re 15, for Merlin’s sake . . .”

“Well yeah, Scorp, but, come on, you’re good at _everything_ , so . . .” Albus would start reassuringly before Scorpius cut him off.

“But that’s the problem, Albie. That’s me, isn’t it? Good, solid Scorpius - a good all-rounder. What do I _do_? How do I _choose_?” Scorpius had known he was fortunate, that being confused because you had too many options was a damn sight easier than being worried because you had none.

Albus would sigh, obviously exasperated, but always keeping his patience. “You _know_ the thing that really gets you going, Scorp. Hagrid only agreed to your extra tuition in Care of Magical Creatures because you finally wore him down with your constant begging. It’s not as if you really _need_  it, is it? Every spare moment you’re poring over those awful news clippings and research papers, those disgusting things about those animals being farmed for fur and killed and, well . . . whatever,” Albus would visibly shiver at the thought of some of the things he’d seen Scorpius reading about with increasing horror and distress. 

“Yeah,” Scorpius had reluctantly admitted, “but that’s just my passion, and how do I turn _that_ into a job?”

“You’ll think of something,” Albus would whisper, crawling up next to Scorpius on the bed, taking his hands affectionately. 

Scorpius would pout a little, but then smile. “It’s alright for Albus Potter the Painting Prodigy,” he’d pretend to tease, secretly feeling the pride swelling his chest.

He had always been slightly envious of Albus where all that was concerned. It had been obvious to everyone what _he_ was born to do. From the moment he’d got his first paints as a child, long before Scorpius had even met him, it had been clear as day that Albus was an artist of talent and genius. By the time he was a teenager, if he was sad or happy or angry he could be found sketching or painting, blending pastels or scratching out something dramatic with charcoal. 

His paintings and drawings of Scorpius already numbered in the hundreds by the time they were doing their OWLs; nestling in boxes amongst portraits of the whole Potter clan, their friends - even a few of Scorpius’ taciturn father that he’d reluctantly sat for at Christmas one year, though only under the influence of several large firewhiskies. 

It hadn’t surprised Scorpius when, a few years later, it had all worked out perfectly for Albus; when he’d come bursting into their dorm one day before they’d even finished sitting their NEWTs clutching three separate offers for lucrative commissions from muggle art galleries and from members of the wizarding world with a penchant for art done the painstaking, _proper_ , muggle way. Other offers weren’t far behind them as word began to spread about Albus’ talent, and the offer of a permanent place in a London studio a few months later had been more a relief than a real surprise. 

“It’s just because my father has influence,” Albus had said repeatedly in private.

“It’s because you’re breathtakingly talented, Albie,” Scorpius had countered. “Your father’s influence gives you a massive advantage, sure, but it would be worth nothing if your art was anything less than world class. Take the influence. Take the advantage. Soon you’ll be in a position where you can share that influence, level the playing field, help to get other excellent artists noticed, those who don’t have the connections you do, you know?”

So Albus had dedicated himself to his path, determined that he would pave it for others less fortunate as well as for himself.

Scorpius had tried not to seem subdued the night they celebrated Albus’ first big commission. They marked it with one of the huge parties for which the Burrow had become so famous, but in the midst of the upbeat atmosphere Scorpius had been desolate, still at a loss about his own future, and now beginning to wonder what would happen to his plans with Albus if he couldn’t get himself together in the same way he had. The prospect of being dead weight in Albus’ life made him utterly miserable.

A conversation with Albus’ Aunt Hermione in a quiet corner, the festivities roaring regardless around them, finally caused the penny to drop. He’d learned that she’d started a school campaign for house-elf rights at Hogwarts. He’d _also_ learned that a lot of people had thought it was ridiculous. But she’d pressed on with it, because she’d known it was the right thing to do. He’d realised what _he_ wanted to do in that moment, that it wouldn’t be easy and it wouldn’t always make him popular. But that it would make him _happy,_ and it would put good into the world.

The Magical Creature Protection Collective was born that night. The idea became reality with equal parts of Hermione’s advice, Albus’ support, Hagrid’s contacts, Scorpius’ own boundless enthusiasm and, in the end, a pretty generous nest egg it turned out his grandma Narcissa had left him, released by his father in spite of his ill-concealed scepticism about Scorpius’ plan. 

Scorpius had taken the galleons, promising, as Albus had, to put his own privilege to use in a way that would create good and kindness and fairness in the world, and paying little attention to the concerns his father had expressed about his safety and reputation.

It was only after he and his small, stubbornly dedicated team at MCPC started getting to work that he realised just how right his father had been to be concerned about Scorpius’ path; how far some wizards and witches were prepared to go to stop the work they were trying to do . . .

But, at the time, Scorpius and Albus had been happy to just wade through their own bliss, completely untroubled by the prospect of anything going wrong. They’d both found what they wanted to do, and when the right flat had become free at just the right time, that too had seemed meant to be.

It had been the perfect size, in the perfect place, already decently decorated and, with extensions afforded by a judicious charm here and there, had plenty of room for what they needed to live, plus a home studio for Albus to paint in and an office full of books that Scorpius could escape to when he felt overwhelmed. 

Walking around it that first time, it was only the idea of being terrorised by the sun at dawn every morning that had made Albus’ nose crumple, that cute way it did when he tried a new food and didn’t like the taste. 

“It’s easily solved with a blackout spell,” Scorpius had whispered, pulling him close, licking at his earlobe teasingly as the agent had led them from the room. 

The poor guy had been - or, at least, had certainly _seemed_ \- completely oblivious to them. His back ramrod straight, his suit perfectly pressed and shoes polished to mirrors, he’d been a fairly typical young muggle professional eager to please, anxiously rattling off scripted praise about the property, shaky, sweaty hands clasping his paperwork. Whenever he’d spun round to face them, emphasising a particularly airy room or the proximity of the flat to this tube station or that local amenity, they had sprung apart, blushing, nodding politely but not really taking much of it in.

They’d been together for nearly three years, best friends for more than seven; they knew each other as well as any two people on earth. But the sexual pull, the _draw_ between them still felt brand new, the spark still as live as the day they’d finally admitted how they felt; that explosive argument in the astronomy tower that had ended in their first kiss, passionate and angry. They hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other as they took in their new home. 

The agent needn’t have bothered worrying. They’d known it was The Place more or less straight away; even in spite of Albus’ misgivings about too-bright bedrooms. They’d signed the papers in record time before apparating to Scorpius’ room in the Manor as soon as they could and falling into bed together.

Neither of them could have known that less than 24 hours later, Scorpius would be laying in a hospital bed, his life in the balance and their perfect world suddenly upended. 

Since that day when he’d gushed and flirted his way around the flat with Albus, Scorpius had often thought that perhaps he had deserved it all, on some level. That he’d been an idiot not to wonder at all their good fortune, to have failed to see catastrophe looming ahead of them.


	3. 3rd December 2024

The raid should have been absolutely textbook.

Steerfoot and his gang had been watched carefully by MCPC for weeks, and hadn’t proven to be particularly sophisticated in their methods. They’d painstakingly built-up a dossier of his criminality, liaising directly with Hermione until even the conservative old statues at the Ministry had had no choice but to approve the raid on the warehouse. 

MCPC and Ministry officials would go in, seize the gang members and bring the remaining cats to safety. 

The thing that played on Scorpius’ mind most was the same thing that _always_ preoccupied him - the thought of those they had been unable to save. The cats ‘procured’ by Steerfoot from breeders of the best pedigree felines to be turned into high-end furs already numbered in the hundreds, and it was a thought that made Scorpius feel physically sick. A thought that was, in the end, enough to distract him.

They’d made sure Steerfoot’s gang would be solidly outnumbered. They predicted a straightforward surrender and, even in the event that it was necessary, disarming them should have been easy work. 

It had only taken a moment of distraction. And it was only when Scorpius had been bleeding out on the warehouse floor, chaos and wandfights raining around him, that it had become apparent that Steerfoot had had far too many galleons behind this venture to come quietly. He and the rest of them had never had much chance of getting away, and the Sectumsempra he’d fired off at Scorpius hadn’t been about trying to escape. Everyone agreed afterwards that his attack had been targeted. Steerfoot had lashed out in anger and frustration at the man who led the group that, as far as he was concerned, had been responsible for his downfall.

Scorpius didn’t remember the initial pain of the curse much. A flash of white heat across his chest followed by a cresting wave of intense, draining agony, a mental image of Albus, smiling and happy and safe and then . . . nothing. They’d told him that was probably because of the shock and blood loss, and was probably all for the best anyway. His team had got him out of the situation alive and Steerfoot was caught and locked up and, thanks to his track record, was a dead cert for a nice long stay in Azkaban. There was nothing to be gained from Scorpius remembering any of it, as everyone reminded him every time they thought he needed reassurance. 

As time went on, the pain of healing had been skilfully numbed by the best healers in the wizarding world. 

“I just knew this was going to happen. Damn fool of a boy to get himself cursed over some stolen cats,” Scorpius had heard his father sniffing at his bedside as he drifted in and out of consciousness during the first few days, his voice breaking with emotion even as he insisted that he only wanted the best of the best healers near his boy; fool or not _._

 _That_ had been closer to the source of Scorpius’ true and lasting pain than the curse itself could ever be. Watching his father being turned inside out with desolation as he found out that his only son would now also be scarred for life by Sectumsempra, just as he had been . . . _that_ , Scorpius knew, would haunt him till his dying day. 

And then there was Albus, his face coming in and out of focus with Scorpius’ consciousness, gradually morphing from fear that he would die to anger that he put himself in such a risky position, pitching himself against wizards who had no respect for _any_ kind of life. Scorpius had felt ranged against his own conscience over that, too - knowing he would never forgive himself for making Albus feel that way, while being sure in his heart that he had _had_ to do what he did, and would do it again. 

But, slowly, he had begun to process all of that guilt, to learn to carry the weight of the suffering he had caused his family and friends. After a while, he had even started to talk to his team at MCPC about coming back to work in the near future; just as soon as he was stronger. Just as soon as he could find a way to break it to his father and Albus . . . 

The disgust and shame he’d then quite suddenly begun to feel at his body, at that cord of knitted skin, at the scar itself, bisecting his chest in a diagonal lightning bolt not unlike that more famous scar on Albus’ father’s forehead, felt like inexcusable vanity. His father had paid an eye-watering sum of money to save his life. His friends and family had gathered around his hospital bed, having to face the fact that he might die. When it became clear he would live, they’d rallied without bitterness, tending and supporting him at home, mopping up his anger and frustration and nightmares and negativity like little sponges until he was _fixed_. Or until he was fixed _enough_.

Surely a scar, even one this big and this evident, was the least he could put up with? To be this self-conscious about it was just . . . ungrateful. He’d known there’d be fallout from the attack. That much had been obvious as soon as he’d woken in the hospital. But he was shocked and embarrassed as time passed and he began to realise that it was his self-esteem that might be the slowest thing to heal.

Since then, he’d started to crave Albus’ attention all the time, while being terrified of the idea of him seeing him undressed. He would sit with him in his studio in the town, just watching him work, living off the relief of being near him, of getting to be with him in spite of that moment when he thought it was over, that he would die and never get to speak to Albus again. 

But, when it came to being close, the Scorpius who used to show himself in complete trust to Albus covered up, or switched off lights they used to keep on. Occasionally, he would instigate sex when he was drunk, because the intoxication was one of the only things that made him confident enough to show himself to Albus completely. Scorpius knew that it was love and respect that made Albus refuse him when he did that, not a lack of desire. But it still felt like a little like rejection. 

All the while, he carried the guilt of feeling self-conscious at all; of feeling that he should be grateful to be alive.

So he tried to hide it. And he tried to forget.


	4. 15th March 2025

Scorpius wandered into the kitchen. He’d put his head into every room in the flat. Albus definitely wasn’t home.

He decided to make a coffee and take it into his study to wait it out until Albus got back. Whenever _that_ would be. The initial hurt at waking alone had turned into anger and fizzled out already. He was worried now. 

The only thing missing apart from Albus was his keys, and Scorpius was starting to panic, the anxiety about losing Albus that he’d felt since the attack flooding back, his every insecurity wailing inside his head. 

Everything had been fine when they’d gone to bed last night. Better than fine, really. Scorpius had been utterly exhausted in a fulfilled, happy kind of way, but he had still melted into Albus when he had pulled him back from sleep, kissing his neck and running his fingers through his hair the way he did when he was trying to seduce him. 

The room had been nicely twilit, so Scorpius had only felt a little nervous about discarding the t-shirt he’d been wearing. But Albus’ lips had made a hot, wet trail down past his clavicle, towards that place where the scar forever marked the halfway mark on his chest, the place that Albus used to kiss all the time, but that Scorpius now concealed from him. Scorpius remembered how he had pulled him back up into a kiss to distract him. The move had been a clumsy one, and he could tell from the way Albus tensed up that he’d noticed it; that he’d realised it was to draw him away from that part of Scorpius’ body. He hadn’t said anything, had just slowed down and let Scorpius lead from that point on. 

He tried to convince himself Albus hadn’t been frustrated; tried to dismiss the creeping doubt that told him Albus was angry with him, and that that was why he’d left him alone now, without warning, on the first day of the rest of their lives.

It had been like this since the attack. The unselfconscious slip of their bodies together had become more hesitant and stilted, their passion more tentative. Scorpius found it much harder to lose himself in the moment, hating how repulsive Albus must find that part of him now, fearing that every attempt to touch or kiss him there was intended to reassure and console, rather than an expression of any desire he might have felt before. 

He jumped out of his skin when he suddenly heard the familiar pop of apparition from Albus’ art studio down the hall. 

“Where in the name of Salazar’s . . .” Scorpius started as he stormed into the studio, breaking off when he found Albus standing in the middle of the room, looking sheepish. 

A large square, obviously an artwork of some kind covered in a paint-streaked sheet, was propped awkwardly against his hip.

“Hey, Scorp!” Albus chirped forcedly, looking at the floor and shuffling his feet, “I, um, I thought you’d still be in bed.”

Scorpius scowled and folded his arms. “Albus, it’s 10am. I’ve been awake at least three quarters of an hour. You just weren’t here, didn’t tell me you were going out . . . where the hell _were_ you? I was worried.”

Albus blanched at the use of his proper name, not meeting Scorpius’ stare. “Um, I went into town, to the studio, just to get something.”

“To get what? Is it that? What is it?” 

Scorpius reached out reflexively. Albus pulled back.

The overwhelming relief of knowing that Albus was OK battled with Scorpius’ irritation at the suspicious way he was behaving. “What the hell is going on? What is it, just show me . . .’

Albus slumped where he stood, huffing a defeated sigh. “OK, fine but, Scorp, I just . . . I had meant to lead up to this, OK? I didn’t know, y’know, whether I should mention it before bringing it here. I even wondered if I would be making too much of it by mentioning it at all,” Albus shrugged, his rambling explanation making less sense the more it went on, his cheeks flaming. Eventually he gave up, letting the tatty sheet fall away to reveal the painting beneath. 

It took Scorpius’ eyes a moment to adjust to what they were seeing. 

The Scorpius in the painting lay on his back on a bed, amongst a riot of Slytherin greens and silvers. His eyes were closed, apparently in sleep, his face relaxed in a faint smile, his skin delicate and translucent. 

Scorpius allowed his gaze to travel down from the face, part of him already knowing what he would see. In the painting he wore nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts, his torso fully exposed, his arms spread across the bedsheets. The pose was almost but not quite erotic.

And there, flashing like pink lightning right across his pale chest, the scar that now tingled under his t-shirt, reminding him it was there, just _daring_ him to forget about it for one blissful moment . . .

It was the most beautiful thing Scorpius had ever seen. And, at the same time, it was unmistakably _him_. For all that Albus had been drawing and painting him since they’d met, nothing before had ever come close to what he was looking at now. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the painting was magic, and not in the muggle style at all.

Albus shifted nervously on his feet. “I shouldn’t have sprung this on you, should have told you I was working on it . . . Scorp, _please_ say something . . .”  

Scorpius’ tongue felt like lead when he tried to speak. “Honestly? If you’d tried to explain this to me before I’d seen it I would have been terrified.”

Albus covered his face with his hands, dropping them to look back at Scorpius, his expression pure panic. “Yeah. I figured. Fuck, OK. See, Scorp, even when I’m working I . . . I want to feel like in some way you’re here with me. Think of it as, a sort of housewarming gift to myself, I wanted to have it here with me when I work. But, Scorp, if it bothers you . . . if it’s going to weird you out, _at all,_ it’s gone, OK? It doesn’t have to be here if . . . “

“No!” Scorpius interrupted. “No, it’s not . . . I don’t mind. It’s not that . . . just . . . God . . . I mean, why did you . . .?” he gestured at the painting, his words refusing to group themselves into speech.

“I’ve always painted you, you _know_ that . . .” Albus answered defensively. 

“Well, yeah. Yeah I know that. But _this_ , I mean, since the . . . “ Scorpius coughed nervously, “since _what happened_ . . . what made you want to paint me, y’know, like this?”

Albus looked stunned. “What made me _want_ to? Scorp, I _love_ you. And I fucking . . . I _want_ you,” he growled. “And . . . I haven’t been able to find any other way of telling you that . . . _it_ . . . that it doesn’t make any difference to me. The . . . the scar. I still love you. But not just that. You still drive me crazy. It still turns me on just watching you move. And this, the painting, the art, it’s how I say stuff, you know? . . . Are . . . are you angry with me?”

“Albie, it’s . . . I can’t describe it, but . . . no, I love it. I love _you_. I can’t believe it.”

Albus’ shoulders sagged with relief. “You don’t mind that it’s . . . I do know you’ve been self-conscious about it, and . . .’

“I just . . . didn’t realise you’d been paying so much attention, that’s all. I didn’t know you’d been looking at me . . . at _It_. . . this closely.” Scorpius realised he’d wrapped his arms around himself without thinking about it.

“I’ve been looking at you since the day I met you. And, well, I’m sorry if it seems a bit . . . creepy. But I’ve always loved drawing you asleep. You’re not so watchful then. You’re less . . . self-conscious. More open, in a way. You don’t hide from me there,” Albus smiled sadly, his voice breaking.

“Oh, Albie, I’m sorry. I know you’ve been feeling shut out since what happened . . .”

“No, Scorp . . . well, yeah, but . . . I just . . . right, I just miss some stuff, you know? And I still love holding you, feeling you moving next to me when we . . . but I can’t pretend not to have noticed that you don’t seem to want to with . . . with the lights on now. The way you move, to keep it covered . . .”

Scorpius felt his tears start to fall. “It makes me feel disgusting, Albie. _Ruined_. Like I’m not what I was when you promised me you’d love me forever, and now I’m scared, that the rules have changed and you won’t want me anymore, and I know how pathetic that makes me sound . . .”

“Fuck, Scorp, no. Merlin, that’s just . . . no, love, no. Look, I don’t know how to describe this without sounding weird but . . . OK, look. Just after what happened, I was over at the Burrow. Your dad was spending some time with you and I wanted to give you guys space, so I went over to see Grandma Molly. She could see I was down a bit about how you’d been since the attack, not wanting me to touch you, you know. I mean, I didn’t go into detail, obviously,” he added hastily, “but, well, just how I knew you were getting to be self-conscious about the mark it had left and how I couldn’t find the words to reassure you because, well, how do you convince someone that nothing has changed? It’s proving a negative, right? Anyway, she told me about when Uncle Bill got his scars in the war. He’d just got engaged to Aunt Fleur then. Well, Gran took one look at him in his hospital bed and just assumed Fleur wouldn’t want him anymore.”

“You’re kidding? It’s funny, I’d never really thought about Bill, y’know, _before_. I’d never thought . . .”

“I know. We’ve always known him that way, haven’t we? It genuinely never occurred to me before that there was a moment when that happened. A moment when he _didn’t_ have a scar and then he _did_. And, well, Gran didn’t know Fleur that well then. You know what she said to Gran?”

“W-what?” Scorpius asked, his tone guarded.

“She said she didn’t care. That all the scars meant was that Bill was brave. And that’s _it,_ that’s exactly how I feel about you. About that scar on your chest. I hate that you got hurt. I still don’t know how to say how much I hate that. I can’t even draw or paint how much I hate that. But the fact that it happened because you were defending something vulnerable, protecting it and doing the right thing, Scorp, it’s just so _you_. And I _love_ that scar for that. It’s a part of you and that’s why I love it. Your kindness and sensitivity and bravery have always really fucking turned me on, love,” Albus chuckled, and Scorpius couldn’t help but mirror his smile shyly. “Since _ever_. Since before I really understood what I was feeling for you. And I still _want_ you. Not just because I love you more than my own life. I still . . . _desire_ you, y’know? And I miss the way you used to abandon yourself to it all,” Albus sloped slowly towards Scorpius, taking him by the wrists, lifting his fingertips to his lips and smiling wickedly, “you know, that way when I suck you and you cry out and arch your back, or like how you throw your head back and show yourself to me when you ride me. It’s like you don’t want to do that any more. The way you won’t let me hold you without a top on anymore, if I see you it’s because I’ve caught a glimpse. And I’m not trying to put pressure on you to give more than you can and I don’t want you to think you have to carry my feelings like a burden, because you don’t, and we’re OK, you know? We’re strong and together and staying strong and together. But I can’t help that it makes me sad. I just don’t want to be on the other side of the door to you. I get that you need time. But I want to _walk_ the path with you. And . . .” Albus finally gulped down a breath, “I guess this is me saying all that.”

Scorpius pulled off his t-shirt in one swipe, tossing it aside, throwing his arms wide in a gesture like defeat. “This is me now, Albie. Whatever went before, this is all I’ve got for you now.”

Albus copied him, discarding his own t-shirt before backing him up to the wall, grinding himself against him. The tenderness made Scorpius feel like crying; the beautiful press of the skin of their chests flush together, as if they were sharing energy, so rare since Scorpius’ body had changed.

Albus pressed his forehead to Scorpius’. “Your body, scar or no scar, is _not_ all you have for me. It’s never been all you’ve given to me. You’ve given me my whole world, Scorp. My whole fucking world. If . . . if I’d lost you, everything that’s truly me would have been gone.”

Scorpius felt his knees shaking. “Come back to bed? Please? I want us to be in our bed together. That’s what I wanted this morning. What I need right now. Take me to our bed and touch me and fuck me and hold on to me.”

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

 

They lay together afterwards, the sheets curled haphazardly around their limbs.

Scorpius, realising he was sprawled out and exposed, pulled the sheet towards himself, covering up.

He caught the worried look that passed briefly across Albus’ sex-flushed face. 

“I’m not OK. Not yet,” he croaked apologetically.

“You don’t have to be OK for me, Scorp,” Albus stroked Scorpius’ cheek as he spoke. “That’s part of us. What being together means. You don’t have to be OK.”

“I’m getting there, Albie. And . . . “ he added with a wry smile, “I’m a lot further along with it than I was an hour ago. That painting, Albie . . . it makes me feel, well, _stunning_. I haven’t felt like that in a long time. I don’t know if I’ve _ever_ really felt the way I feel right now . . .”

Albus grinned. “Well, as a boyfriend, that means the world to me and I’m very glad. As an artist, it makes me feel like a cocky little shit.”

Scorpius laughed. “Oh come on, it’s no secret you’re the best artist working right now.”

They listened to the silence as their heartbeats slowed, basking in the fact that it was _theirs_ \- their bed and their home and their life together and their silence.

“Albie?” Scorpius breathed at last, steadying himself for what he was about to say.

“Yeah?”

“I have to go back. To work. I can’t give it up. I’ve thought about it. I’m sorry, but I want to finish what I’ve started. The scale of the horror, the abuse. I hadn’t realised the half of it until I started work. If I stop now, I can’t live with myself . . .”

“I know.”

Scorpius turned to face him, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m scared, Scorp, but I _know_.”

“I love you so much, Albie.”

“I love you too. And remember that your dad loves you when you tell him you’re going back. I’ve got a feeling he’ll say some stuff he doesn’t mean.”

Scorpius held Albus tighter. “Have you given the painting a name? You usually give them names.”

Albus shuffled a little so he could lay his cheek against Scorpius’ sheet-draped chest. “It’s called _My Passion Tranquil_ ”


End file.
